


Michelle

by Emilys_List



Category: The West Wing
Genre: F/M, Pre-White House (West Wing), Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-08-02
Updated: 2004-08-02
Packaged: 2019-05-15 20:43:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14797646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emilys_List/pseuds/Emilys_List
Summary: josh and donna are getting to know each other.





	Michelle

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

**Michelle**

**by: emily's list**

**Character(s):** Josh, Donna  
**Pairing(s):** Josh/Donna, Josh/OFC  
**Category(s):** Romance, Pre-White House  
**Rating:** MATURE  
**Summary:** Josh and Donna get to know each other.  
**Author's Note:** Isabella Moss is my creation, and she is discussed in this story. However, this fic is not a prequel to "Trying To Fight Gravity." Thank you to willa for beta assistance! 

Michelle. 

Oh, Michelle. 

Senior year at Harvard. She was in my Senior Thesis Writing Seminar during the fall semester, but I barely noticed her until the term was over. Unfortunately, the overachiever in me manages to kill most romantic possibilities before anything starts. I'm driven. That's how it goes. 

She wore preppy little Izod shirts and pastel Benneton sweaters tied around her shoulders. She had long blonde hair and long legs and she asked me out. So I said yes. 

As it turned out, Michelle had a lot going for her besides all that longness. She was opinionated and passionate and obnoxiously outspoken. 

And that's all that I really want in a woman. 

Michelle and I would lay in bed and study, and not speak to each other for hours, except to say, ‘Can you believe this jackass opinion?' I was so content to just be in the same room with her. 

When she was working on a paper, she would stalk around my room wearing boxers and my Doobie Brothers t-shirt, mumbling and making notes on a legal pad. 

We would sit in cafes and argue, even if we agreed with each other. Just because we could. Just because we liked being together. She was the first woman I was ever in love with. 

Then, she joined the Peace Corps. 

‘So I guess I'm breaking up with you,' she told me the night before graduation - the night before she graduated summa cum laude. She was off to Venezuela and I was starting law school at Yale. I don't know what I said in response; something inane, probably. My little twenty-one year old heart was feeling broken. 

‘How can we stay together?' she whispered against my chest. ‘Living on different continents will be very problematic.' 

We graduated the next day. She wrote to me, from time to time, but I never saw her again. 

Which is why I swore off blondes. Literally. I do not date blondes. I'm aware of the stupidity of this reasoning, but it's been an attempt to keep my heart from breaking again. I don't deal well with breaking. 

I preferred brunettes. Really. 

And then I walked into my office one day, where a woman who hired herself to be my assistant stood answering my phone. 

++++ 

He watches her. She's just opening packages of pamphlets and bundling them, preparing them to be sent to other offices. 

But it's in the way she does it. She has this rhythm going. The plastic wrapping of the packages is yanked at the seams. It's sensual, but he's not entirely sure why. Then, of course, there's the matter of the bundling. 

She groups the Bartlet for America pamphlets in piles of fifty. Then she has this way of effectively pulling a rubber band around the pile with one hand as she snaps it lightly. 

Rubber. Her hand. Snap. 

He tries to shake it out of his head, but he finds that he can't. She's only been here a month and it's been four weeks of thinking thoughts that would get him fired for impropriety. He has a girlfriend. His girlfriend is witty, argumentative and sexy, and he can't stand her. 

But the woman who has stayed behind at work after everyone is gone... she's different. Nervous at first, she has begun to gain confidence in the weight of her opinions. She has something to contribute. 

He watches her, this woman who has helped him in the last month by leaps and bounds. His office is organized and his head is clear. All because of her. 

She looks up at him suddenly, and he wonders how long he's been looking at her. 

++++ 

I sense him watching me, and I look up. "Hi Josh." 

He smiles. "Hi Donna." 

"Can I get you something?" He shakes his head. My eyes linger on his face for a moment before I give him a polite smile and return to my work. 

"Donna. Can I ask you a question?" 

"Yes." I don't stop the steady pace I've developed with what I'm doing. 

"Why are you still here?" He's watching me very carefully. 

"You're still here," I answer simply. 

"Oh," is all he says. He returns to reading a transcript of an interview the Governor gave last week. We keep working in silence. And this silence isn't uncomfortable, although it should be. We barely know each other, but there seems to be no need for banal small talk. 

I take one moment to look around the headquarters. The two lamps in Josh's office are the only illumination in this dark space. "Hey," he breaks the silence. "Tomorrow I need you to set up a conference call with Senator Marino." 

"Democrat from New Jersey." 

"Close. Pennsylvania." 

"I'm getting better." 

"Yes you are." His attention is back on me. I'm just sitting here, there's not much to look at. 

"We should go home," he says, his voiced strangled. "You should go home. And, I should go home. But not together. We're not going home to--" He lays his head on the desk. 

Okay. 

I continue to work on the packets. He finally lifts his head. "Those don't have to be out until next week." 

"I like to keep ahead when possible," I say. He stands up and grabs our coats. 

"You're more than ahead. Are you a robot?" he asks. Josh stands next to my chair and looks down to me. 

"Yes," I reply solemnly. He grins, and pulls me out of my chair. He helps me put my coat on, which isn't necessary but is very sweet. 

"Let's get a drink," he orders, pulling his own jacket on quickly. He puts his hand on my back, and I jump at his touch. It's not unpleasant; it's just something he's never done before. But he doesn't recognize my flinch, and he guides me to the door - when I remember something. 

"Mandy left you a message," I tell him as I walk through the headquarters back to his office. It occurs to me he never asked me if I wanted to get a drink. When I unearth the note, I smile uncomfortably. "I don't think we can really go get that drink." 

He approaches me, but doesn't enter the office. "Yeah?" 

I read the note. "Mandy wanted to let you know that you need to pick up more condoms on your way home tonight." 

He looks very embarrassed. "Did you have to... yell that?" 

"Is there anyone else here?" 

"No," he says breathily. "There isn't." 

I am not going down this road. I will not be some sexual conquest that fuels someone's ego. He is altogether too old for me, and he's not my type. 

Okay, he is my type, technically. But he is my professional superior, and I will not have a scarlet letter attached to me like this. 

By the time I drop back into this universe, Josh seems considerably lighter. "One drink. Okay? Maybe two." 

"What about Mandy and the prophylactics?" I quip. Immediately, I regret it. We don't know each other well enough for me to be saying things like that. 

"How about we make a rule that we don't talk about Mandy or prophylactics. Okay?" He's smiling, so I feel a bit more at ease. I nod. 

We proceed out the door into the cold, New Hampshire air. 

++++ 

"Ilie Nastase, huh?" 

"Can I finish?" He nods, grinning into his vodka. "So I realized, ultimately, that a marriage proposal was not what I really wanted to offer him. Of course, at that point, the letter was already in the mailbox. But I have long arms, I thought it would be okay." I pause to laugh at myself. "Which is when the police car happened by, and I became quite belligerent--" 

"Thirteen-year-old girls can become belligerent?" 

"You're obviously underestimating my determination to retrieve this letter. So. I became belligerent. That's when the almost arrest happened." 

"They're practically identical stories," he says as he drains his glass. "Protesting Reagan's foreign policy and sending letters to dreamy tennis players. It's uncanny, the similarities." 

"Protesting foreign policy is so pointless," I tease him. 

Why am I teasing him? That's certainly something to ponder. 

"Hey, I almost got arrested for that protest. That makes me edgy." He waves the waitress over and orders us two more drinks. 

"What exactly were you protesting?" 

Josh tries to fight off the smile that's forming on his face. "Would you think less of me if I told you that I don't remember?" 

"What was her name?" 

I've startled him. "What... what makes you think that I would be so... Michelle." 

I run her name through my head. "Michelle. So Michelle was an activist do-gooder with a sore spot for abused, developing nations." 

He glances away from me for the first time tonight. "Something like that," he mumbles. 

Suddenly, I feel nervous. "Josh, I'm sorry, did I... overstep some boundaries?" I think I might be blushing. 

"No, no, it's fine. Ancient history. It was, like, fifteen years ago." 

I bite my lip. Fifteen years ago, I used to ponder the fact that my age matched my bedtime. I was eight. "What happened to her?" I ask. 

"Peace Corps," he responds, shrugging. "Then Doctors Without Borders." He looked away, into the distance. 

"She broke your heart," I say softly, tentatively. 

Josh lets out an embarrassed laugh. "Yeah. She did." 

I'm trying to visualize a woman who could make this self-assured, arrogant man become so downcast. FIFTEEN years later. 

"...who was she?" I can't help but ask. 

He leans his head on his hand, his elbow braced on the table. "She was... sweet." He smiles to himself. "She yelled at me and called me callow." 

"Where did you go to school?" 

"Harvard." 

I'm startled, and I'm sure it shows. "Oh. That's great." I nod and smile for no particular reason. God, this is becoming awkward. "I'm not sure you can be considered callow, then." 

"That's the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me," he deadpans. 

I laugh, as the waitress plops our drinks down. 

"At the time, I was probably callow, although I'd like to think that I was closer to being unconversant," Josh says. Is he trying to pick me up with SAT words? 

I take a sip. "They mean the same thing, Jane Austen." 

I freeze as the word ‘Austen' spills out of my lips. That may have been, perhaps, over the line. Josh raises his eye brow as I calmly put my drink down. The mild flirting and teasing were perfectly acceptable. But I'm not sure how blatantly insulting my Harvard educated employer will go over. He's silent, and I truly don't know what to say. So, I just blurt out whatever comes to mind. 

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to call you a dead female writer. I do this thing where I'm sarcastic and--" 

He smiles. "Donna, it's okay. I wasn't offended." He lowers his voice, "I'm not your boss right now. We're just having a couple of drinks." His voice becomes louder for no particular reason. "You know, I don't really want you to think of me that way at all. I'm just a guy, okay? I'm just Josh." He takes a long drink from his vodka tonic. "And unconversant and callow do not mean the same thing." 

"You know, for a drunk guy, your vocabulary is surprisingly intact. Or...not." 

His forehead crinkles. "I had two drinks, I'm not... drunk." Josh tilts his head. "What was your verbal SAT score?" 

I sip my whiskey sour demurely. "I don't like to talk about things like this... it was 790." 

"Almost perfect," he replies somewhat flabbergasted. 

"Well, I am almost perfect, Josh," I tell him flirtily. "What was your score?" 

"It doesn't matter. Now I'm gonna have to lie." His eyes dart up to meet mine, and he gives me a grin. 

My fingers toy with my napkin. "Why did... you know what? Forget it." 

"Okay." 

"No, actually. No. Why did you ask me that?" 

Josh rubs a spot on his neck compulsively. "I was hoping... I'd, uh, have the chance to show off?" He puts his glass to his lips and drinks steadily. 

Huh. 

"You know, right about now, I need a hell of a lot of alcohol. Would you...?" I nod, and he gets up, taking our glasses to the bar. 

I stare at his back and I can see the muscle definition that is apparent through his shirt. I'm running my tongue over my lips unconsciously - until I realize that I'm doing it. I breathe a shallow breath when he turns around to look at me. When he looks at me like that, I can feel the dampness forming in my underwear. I don't know if it's the alcohol or the late hour or how close in proximity we've been all day, but I'm feeling ready. For anything. 

We're staring at each other now, and his eyes are warming my body. When his cellphone rings, I don't take my eyes off of him as I answer. "Josh Lyman." 

"This isn't Josh Lyman, I know what he sounds like." 

I sigh as he grins before turning back to the bar. "This is his assistant, Donna Moss. Who is this?" 

"This would be Mrs. Lyman." 

For a moment, my alcohol-laced mind flashes to a wife Josh never speaks about, but then I settle down and realize who the older woman's voice must belong to. 

"Josh's mother," I say into the phone. 

"Yes. Donna? I have a question that I hope isn't too intrusive, but why are you picking up my son's phone at 3 AM?" Her tone throws me off. I can't tell if she's angry or joking. So, because of the aforementioned alcohol-laced brain, I get a bit defensive. 

"We're working late. And Mrs. Lyman, forgive me for being rude, but why are you calling at 3 AM?" The words come out of my mouth and I immediately regret them. My eyes squeeze shut. "Mrs. Lyman, I apologize for what I just said. It's been a long day and..." I trail off, too embarrassed to say anything else. 

There's silence on the other end. "Noah, pick up the extension. A woman answered, and it's not Mandy. Thank God." 

"Mrs. Lyman," I rush to say, "I'm not... this isn't a conversation I'd like to be having now. I'm Josh's assistant, Donna Moss?" 

"Donna Moss?" I hear a male voice ask. "Moss, what an interesting last name. What's your background?" 

"My father is Irish and my mother is Italian, but Mr. Lyman, I don't think you understand that--" 

I hear motherly tsking sounds. "Noah, she sounds so sweet. Doesn't she sound so sweet?" 

"Very sweet," he agrees. Well, that's nice. 

Josh is walking towards me, his eyebrow lifted at the phone in my hand. I shrug miserably. 

"Donna, I'm not trying to pry, but... is this serious between you and my son? He doesn't tell me, but a mother needs to know these things. Am I right?" 

"Mrs. Lyman, I am not dating your son. I am his assistant." His eyes stay on me as he sits down. "I'm going to hand the phone off to Josh." My fingers creep toward my newly freshened glass. "It was nice speaking with you, Mr. and Mrs. Lyman," I say weakly. Then I thrust the phone into his hands. 

First, I will find out if I'm fired for being rude to his parents. If not, I plan on drinking heavily. 

++++ 

"Hi, Mom. Dad, how's chemo go--" 

"Joshua, who is Donna?" 

Oh, God, this isn't happening. "Why are you calling so late?" 

"Josh, we saw you on C-SPAN. You looked good," my Dad says energetically. 

"Thanks, Dad. But, seriously, why are you calling so--" 

"This is the only time we can ever reach you. It's so loud." Then, suspiciously, my mother continues, "Are you in a bar at three A.M. with your assistant?" 

I look over at Donna, who is staring at me nervously. Her expression causes me to suppress the smile I can feel pulling at my mouth. "No, I'm not in a bar." 

"Joshua, you're lying. It's not funny, stop smirking." 

I wasn't. . . okay, a smirk was probably on its way. Still, "No, Mom, I'm not smirking. Listen, Donna and I are trying to get some work done, so. . ." 

"I met with Dan Lawson for racquetball, you remember him? He's a partner with Gage Whitney. I mentioned the Bartlet campaign, and he absolutely went off on the subject of Sam. Had all manner of things to say about him, not one of them nice. He called him a traitor and a... well, nevermind. They know they lost someone special. It was great, he was hopping mad, I felt so proud." 

I laugh. "That's great, Dad. I'll be sure to let him know." 

"You boys are doing okay, son?" 

"Yeah. We're great," I tell him, turning just a bit from Donna. "So. You're... feeling okay? Dad? You're doing okay?" 

I hear my mother sigh and my dad chuckle. "I'm feeling gr--" 

"He's not taking it easy, Joshua, tell him to take--" 

"Elyse, I am feeling fine and you don't need to worry hi--" 

"Noah, don't get started and I'm ser--" 

"Mom. Dad. I can't hear both of you at the same time." Donna's face hasn't changed, so I decide it would be wise to end this conversation. "I need to get some work done, actually. Charts and stats... on... the economy." 

"Joshua, you are the worst liar," my mother admonishes. "Have a good night," she says, her tone softening. "This one sounds cute. Maybe after the campaign you could start thinking about settling down? There's a great house on Birch Street. It's not too far from the elementary school." 

I shake my head. I can't express how none of that is going to happen. 

"He's got some time, Elyse," says my father, the voice of reason. "But Josh?" he asks, his voice dropping so low that I have to strain to hear him. 

"Yes, Dad?" 

"Would a couple of grandkids really kill you?" 

I take back that voice of reason thing. 

"Goodnight, Dad. Mom. I hope you've enjoyed your meddling for the evening, I know I have." 

They say their final goodbyes and hang up. 

And I return to Donna. 

++++ 

I think of a million cool things to say to Josh as he speaks to his parents. About a half-million are smooth, seductive lines. The other half are supportive and genuine. 

"They thought we were an item," I blurt out when he hangs up. 

That, incidentally, was not one of the million. ‘An item.' That's something my mother would say. Yecchh. 

Josh raises an eyebrow but says nothing, which is odd for him. 

"They seem like nice people," I say breezily. 

"They want me to get married as quickly as possible to a nice, Jewish girl." He leans forward, and asks in a husky voice, "You're not Jewish, are you, Donnatella Moss?" 

One would think my name alone would prove my non-Jewish status. I shake my head no. 

He lifts his drink to his lips. "Pity," he says into his glass. At least, that's what I think he said. After all, he said it into his glass, and I'm on drink number... whatever. 

"So you're Jewish," I say politely. 

"Only as a technicality. We don't keep kosher or go to temple nearly enough. When I was very young, we went more often but then..." 

He stops speaking and looks away. "We stopped," he says stiffly. 

I'm starting to wonder about how many demons he has floating around in his head. 

"I'm a Lutheran," I tell him, trying desperately to ease away from a subject that seems to make him uncomfortable. 

"Really." I nod. "Do you go to church?" I shake my head. "Why?" I shrug. 

"Faith is harder to come by as you get older. Believing is easy as a child, but life sets in and it becomes difficult to maintain belief." I tug on my naked earlobe. I wonder where my earrings went. 

From out of nowhere, he retrieves a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. "Religion doesn't ask much of children. You go to Hebrew school or Sunday school and you color pictures of Noah's ark," he says, lighting a cigarette. I stare blankly at him. "What?" Then, "This doesn't bother you, does it?" 

"I didn't know you smoked." 

"I'm discreet." 

"This isn't very discreet," I say, waving the smoke out of my face. 

"It's okay to smoke in a bar. It's practically law that you have to." 

"Thank God for New Hampshire and its politicians." I sit back in my chair. 

He keeps smoking, watching the waitress approach our table. "Are you going to leave if I keep smoking?" Josh pulls the cigarette away from his mouth, giving me a look. 

Not if you keep smiling at me like that. "Maybe." 

He crumples up the pack, putting it on the waitress' tray. He puts his cigarette out in his glass. "First off, I'm going to need a new glass, filled with a vodka tonic. She," he says, gesturing to me, "needs a new whiskey sour." Our waitress, Helen, smiles and goes to the next table. 

Did I just see him quit smoking? 

"So tell me about your family," he says, stealing my glass. He drinks from it, letting the ice cubes fall into his mouth. He sucks on them, looking hopefully at me. "Can we be expecting a call from Mr. and Mrs. Moss any time tonight?" 

"Probably not." 

"And why is that?" 

I steal my glass back, letting the lone ice cube enter my mouth. When I put the glass down, I realize Josh is staring at my mouth. I bite my bottom lip, and push unruly strands of hair behind my ear. "I haven't been... exactly... speaking to my family." 

He runs his fingers over the wood table where someone carved: Greg Luvs Nancy. 

"Why aren't you speaking to them?" His fingers weave through the grooves in the table. 

"I reacted badly to something... I don't really want to talk about it." 

Josh looks up, his mouth partially open. "Okay. I didn't realize... okay." He's still tracing the table with his fingers, his hand wandering closer to mine. "So, if I can just ask you - 790? Are you serious?" 

"Does it disappoint you that I don't fit the dumb blonde archetype?" 

He looks like I just jabbed him with a stick. "I never thought that. I wouldn't think... I've known intelligent blondes. Even if I didn't, I'd still know that..." He loosens his tie and slumps in his chair. "I'm just going to stop. So why did you go to school in Wisconsin? SAT scores like that are usually accompanied by perfect grades and an overachieving, full schedule of extracurricular activities. Why didn't--" 

"It was the best option at the time," I tell him, looking over a few tables. A beautiful woman is checking Josh out. As she smiles at my gaze, I surmise that I might be wrong. I look away. 

"Where did you apply?" he asks, his head cocked to the side, his lips in a semi-smile. 

I look up to the ceiling. "Columbia, Cornell, uh, Brown, UPenn, American, University of Chicago, University of Virginia, the New School in New York City--" 

"Hang on." He looks puzzled. "You didn't get into any of them?" 

Helen brings us our drinks, and I flash a grateful smile at her. I sip my whiskey sour. When he stops looking at me to drink out of his glass, I let him know that I got into all of my schools. 

When he's done choking, I nod at him. "You okay?" 

Josh shrugs, and his face forms in such a way that his dimples are visible without cracking a smile. "I'm not sure what to be more perplexed by. The fact that you applied to schools of vast geographical locales with differing educational focuses, or the fact that you got into - I didn't get into all of my choices." 

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure you went to your first choice," I counter. 

He waves his hand. "We don't have to do this. What I can't understand is... what could Madison offer you that New York, D.C., Chicago, or Philadelphia couldn't?" 

I slip my fingertip around the rim of the glass. "My sister is younger." 

"You have a sister?" 

"Yes, which I explained when I said that my sister was younger." 

"Was younger?" 

"She is younger, Grammar Police. Isabella--" 

"Donnatella and Isabella." 

I ignore him, and the patronizing way he said our names. "My sister is younger. But very..." I'm starting to find that the whiskey is making word choices... bad. 

"My sister is intelligent. Very intelligent. Gifted, some might say. I knew how much it would cost to send me to a private college, and I knew that Isabella would probably benefit from a structured way to educate herself." I pull my hair back, and watch Josh watch me. "She wanted to go to Dartmouth. I didn't really know what I wanted anyway... so I went to Madison. It wasn't a sacrifice or anything like that. It was... she's important to me, and I want her to be happy." 

He leans in, and asks in this intimate voice, "How old is your sister?" 

"Too young for you to date. Also, not interested." 

"I'm just curious. How old is--" 

"She's still in school." 

His face crinkles with what looks like confusion. "Your sister goes to Dartmouth." 

"Yeah." 

"Good school." 

"Mm-hmm." I begin to drum my fingertips on the tabletop. 

"It's an hour and a half away." 

"I'm aware." 

"You don't want to see her?" His question sounds like an accusation. 

"We're not really speaking right now." 

"You and I, or you and her? ‘Cause right now, you and I--" 

"I don't know you well enough to talk about this," I interrupt. 

He takes a sip of his drink, pushing away the empty glass. "I'm a pretty sensitive guy." 

"Yes. I'm sure you're the pinnacle of sensitivity," I say sarcastically. I take a long, brave gulp of my drink. I replace it lightly on the table. "My sister told me she was a lesbian at Christmas break. Before she went back to school." I exhale, and it feels like I've been holding air in for months. 

"Do you have a... problem with that?" 

"Do you have a sister?" 

He looks pained for a minute, and he shakes his head. "No." 

"Okay, well, if you did, and she said, ‘Josh, I'm a lesbian,' I'm sure you'd need some time to deal with it." 

"Are you done dealing with it?" 

I hesitate. I wish I had a better answer. "Not really." 

"Do you want some advice?" 

"Yeaaah... no." 

"Can I give you some anyway?" 

"What do you want to give me?" I say huskily. 

"Donna, are you drunk?" 

"I don't get drunk." 

"Me neither. Can I give you some advice?" 

I relent. "Knock yourself out." 

He sits back in his chair, and a slight, calm smile falls over his face. "You just gotta get over it." 

I feel the palm of my hand pressing deeply into the table. I nod, I can't stop myself from nodding. 

"What's the matter?" he asks. 

"Was that the sensitive advice?" I ask. "Because really, Josh, that was - not nice." Not nice is not what I wanted to say. What I wanted to say would have been more verbose and borderline inappropriate. Things you shouldn't say to your boss. 

Although, come to think of it, it has been an entire night of impropriety regarding boss-assistant relations. 

"Josh," I say slowly. His eyebrows raise in response, his eyes settling on my lips. "Why are we here, Josh?" 

"For a drink," he tells me, his eyes steady. 

"Okay. Why are you here?" 

He looks up, as if he's been caught doing something he shouldn't. "Uh, what am I doing here? Having a drink with you. Having several... or more... drinks with you. My assistant. Why am I here, is that what you asked?" 

I nod, leaning back in my chair. I am enjoying this. 

"I'm here, Donna, because..." All of a sudden, his face lights up. Not with a smile, but an excuse. 

I'm not entirely sure how I know that. 

"Uh, Sam likes you. He wanted me to, you know, do some reconnaissance." 

"Really." 

"Yeah." 

"Sam is engaged." 

"Well it's obviously not the most binding relationship if he likes you." 

I ignore him. "You have a girlfriend. In dire need of condoms. Why are you here with me at 4AM?" 

"I thought we said we wouldn't talk about the condoms, Donna." Silence. "'Girlfriend' is really overstating the relationship. I'm here because I want to be here." 

For some reason, my eyes fall to the first button of his dress shirt. He usually wears jeans, sweaters, t-shirts. He had a meeting in Boston today and he wore a suit. 

His tie vanished sometime during the day, but his blue dress shirt is very distracting right now. His shirts just... fit him so well. 

"We don't have to be here," he tells me as he stands up. "We could be somewhere else." 

With that smooth line, I am whisked out the door. 

++++ 

He walks her to her door, something he hasn't done since ninth grade. He's the kind of guy who leaves at two AM, mumbling about an early meeting. 

Or he's the one being left. He gets left quite a bit, in different relationships. 

He walks her to her door, his hand on the small of her back. This action, this touch, is part needing to steady himself. Without holding on to her, he might have weaved quite a bit from his six drinks. 

The other part of touching her is because he wants to, and because she lets him. 

They get to her door. 

And they look at each other at the same time. Both are quick to avert their eyes, their sight falling on the door in front of them. 

She takes out her keycard slowly. It rests in her hand; she does not move to unlock her door. 

"Josh," she says. "I don't think we should..." The problem with her unfinished statement is that she does think they should. "I just..." She leans against the door, frustrated. She cannot find words. 

They are quiet for a moment; the only noise of the hallway - fluorescent lights. 

"I'm not good at..." Relationships, he thinks. Relations other than sex. "I'm not good at... well. Speaking, currently." He smiles to himself, embarrassed. "I just want to.. ask you." He looks up, and into her eyes. "Can I kiss you?" 

She tries to feel shocked as she fights a smile. "As your assistant, I would proofread that question and remind you that it's ‘may,' not ‘can.'" 

"And as a woman who I'd like to kiss very badly?" 

"Well, since you asked nicely," she says, touching her lips to his. 

++++ 

All of a sudden, we're stumbling into her room. We're kissing and we're still a little drunk and I can't think about anything but unzipping her skirt. 

She stops me to shut the door, to throw the keycard on her dresser. 

I put my lips to hers again, already missing the sensation of her moist, warm lips. 

Her fingers dart down my chest, unbuttoning my shirt, as I kiss her neck. 

All I can think about is how good this feels. 

I thread my hands through her long hair. It's silky to the touch, these blond strands of her hair. Unburdened by those stupid little clips, Donna looks older than her... twenty-four years. 

It's been awhile since I've slept with a twenty-four year old. I was twenty-five at the time. 

Her hands are hot on my chest, I can feel the heat through my t-shirt. This t-shirt that Mandy bought me. 

As if she can read my mind, Donna stops kissing me. "We can't do this." 

I agree with her. But my arms are around her body, and she feels good. 

"Mandy," she says, which is when I pull away. "I won't be that girl and I won't let you be that... that guy. You're better than that." 

"I like you," I tell her, moving blond hair out of her eyes. "I'm not that guy." 

"I want to believe that," she whispers. "I really do." 

I kiss her, searching for warmth. My tongue explores her mouth as she emits a series of small moans. 

"Josh," she says, her voice different from a moment ago. I put my hands to the soft material of her sweater, the sweater that hugs her frame perfectly. My hands rest at the bottom of the garment, and my eyes flash up to her, asking. 

She responds by pulling her sweater off herself. 

Donna is standing here, her bare skin illuminated by the bedside light. She's standing here in front of me, her long blond hair hitting her shoulders. Jeans. Socks. A light pink bra. 

A light pink bra. 

A light pink... 

I seem to be stuck on that one. 

"Can I?" she asks me. I have no idea what she wants, but the answer is yes. I nod. 

She leads me to the bed, where she takes off my shirt. Donna puts one arm around my neck, stroking my chest with her other hand. 

She puts the other arm around my neck, pressing our upper bodies together. She devours my mouth. 

I let her. 

Slowly, we lay down, breaking our kiss. We lay down, facing each other. Donna throws one arm around my waist and buries her face in my chest. 

"We really can't do this." 

"We really can." 

"Sure, we can do anything, but it doesn't mean that we should." She shifts away from me, lying on her back. "I always do this. I rush things when there's no need." Donna turns her head to face me. "Either this will fade or it won't. If it doesn't fade, let me know. And break up with Mandy, will you? You don't like her." 

I'm laying next to Donna on a bed, and I'm not wearing my shirts because she removed them. 

This is, by far, the strangest sexual non-experience I've ever had. 

"Are you... are you sure?" I ask her when I know the answer. I move to get up, to find my shirts. I would like to retreat with a little bit of dignity. 

She stops me, pulling at my arm. "I'm not saying I don't want to sleep with you. I do, very much. But I can't think of doing something this stupid right now." She moves her hand to my shoulder. "Will you stay? Just to sleep?" 

I consider my options, weighing things I don't want to think about. I get up and turn, purposefully wanting to see Donna's face. Disappointed. 

I find her sweater, and hand it to her. "You look cold," I tell her, moving back towards the bed. I pull my pants off and settle under the covers. 

"I'm not wearing a sweater to bed." 

"Okay. I'm not wearing pants to bed." 

She considers this, weighing my semi-nakedness. She puts the sweater away and takes her pants off. I have to look away, it's just too good an image. 

When I look back up, she's in a t-shirt and pajama pants, her blond hair pulled into a ponytail. She pads slowly to the bed, and gracefully climbs in next to me. I fight the urge to kiss her. 

Donna settles closer to me, our bodies touching. It's so strange, to be wearing underwear while she's fully clothed. I feel vulnerable - naked. 

She buries her face in my neck, her hot breath constant on my skin. 

"Goodnight," she breathes. 

I stare at the ceiling, one arm gently rubbing her back. I don't sleep in beds with women. I've never felt content before to just perform the action of sleeping. Usually, there are other types of performing that happen before the actual sleeping. 

I'm going to bed with Donna and I feel like a tornado just hit my life. 

I think I may be liking it. 

++++ 

"Josh, are you going to talk to me?" 

"No." 

"This shouldn't be a shock, I've been talking about it for months." She shifted out of my arms, and turned to look at me. "Josh," she whispered, her hand caressing my cheek. 

"What." I looked away, swallowing hard. I swallow tears; words I'll regret; words that drive me crazy. 

"Oh, don't be like that," she said softly, kissing me. It was almost like I could feel goodbye on her lips. 

I pull away from her. 

"I don't know what you want from me." 

"I just... want you to talk to me," she said. I can hear it in her voice - all that hurt. 

She reached out to touch my chest, and her hand pressed firmly into my skin. She kissed the side of my neck. I just wanted to die. 

"Don't go," I blurted out. I shifted lower in bed, searching out her mouth. I kissed her roughly, my hands insistent on her back. "Don't go," I whispered. 

Her laugh startled me. "What would you have me do? Go to Yale with you?" 

I didn't tell her that I had thought of that. "N-no." 

"You have such a journey ahead of you," she said, pulling us closer together. "I would get in the way of that, Josh." She looked into my eyes and smiled patiently at me. "Besides, you know how terrible I'd be at Yale. You know that's not where I should be." 

"You should be with me," I said, choked, as tears threatened my voice. 

"How can we stay together?" she whispered against my chest. "Living on different continents will be very problematic." 

"I don't want us to be just together!" I yelled, pulling away. "I want you to be physically with me." 

"Unless you're coming to Venezuela, that is unlikely," she told me. Her voice was free from humor, and she did not try to coax me back into her arms. My eyes fell to my boxers on the floor. "Did you think we'd get married?" 

With as much honesty as I could muster, I told her no. 

"I know I love you," she said fiercely. "I know that I could spend the rest of my life with you. I could." She paused, sighing. "But we shouldn't be together right now. There is a time for everything, and if there is a time for us, it will happen again." She kissed me, in what was our last kiss. She rubbed my back soothingly as she spoke. "You're going to take a couple of months off, and you're going to stay with your parents in the Berkshires. You and Noah and Elyse are going to have a blast. God, I'll miss your parents. You three are like Ricky, Ozzie and Harriet. It would be nauseating if it wasn't so endearing." 

"Thank you," I said as she took a moment to pause. 

"Hey, I meant that in a good way. You'll go to Yale, and you'll get your J.D., and you'll move to Washington. And whatever you do, whatever you find, I know you're going to absolutely love it." 

"Yeah," was all I could think to say. 

"And, eventually, you'll meet someone. She'll be smart and funny. Charismatic. She will love you. I know you'll find her." Michelle's voice started taking on a slow, sleepy quality that I had become familiar with. 

"So I guess we're breaking up," she said, but I could hardly listen to her. I would forget her actual words over time. "This hurts more than I thought it would," she told me as she drifted into sleep. She snuggled her body closer to mine. 

I got up. Shocked by the absence of warmth, she sat up. "Where are you going?" 

I pulled on my boxers; I knew exactly where they were. I looked for my jeans, my t-shirt, my sweatshirt. "I, uh... I gotta go." 

"Don't do this. Don't be that guy," she said, wrapping the sheet around her naked shoulders. The volume of her voice dropped as she asked me, "Stay?" 

I sat on the bed to lace my sneakers. "Stay with me. We'll sleep. I sleep better when you're next to me." 

I stood up, facing the door of her room. I thought it over. 

I was that guy. 

I threw "goodbye" over my shoulder as I left her.


End file.
